


Zoom lens feelings still won't disappear

by LittleMissO



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2020-12-21 07:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21071522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissO/pseuds/LittleMissO
Summary: A continuation of incredible Ktlsyrtis' masterpiece of an AU Zoom lens feelings just won't disappear. Written as a thank you for organising the Berena Remix 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktlsyrtis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [zoom lens feelings just won't disappear](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633613) by [ktlsyrtis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/pseuds/ktlsyrtis), [lavenderseaslug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug). 

> With grateful thanks to Regency for her outstanding cheerleading, encouragement, feedback and willingness to help me wrangle plot bunnies

The last week, the week since she had met Bernie, seemed to have gone past in a flash. A flash was a particularly apt analogy, Serena decided, given how big a role cameras and photographs had played in the way events had panned out. When she’d booked the boudoir shoot shot with B Wolfe she’d known that she was in for a new experience. What she hadn’t realised was quite how extensive that new experience would be. She’d been prepared, as best she could be, for the photo shoot. She’d prepared herself for the vulnerability, the awkwardness - even the possible embarrassment. What she hadn’t prepared for, couldn’t have prepared for, was the impact that Bernie would have on her. It wasn’t just the way she looked in the flesh, though that had been revelation enough. The photos that Serena had found online barely did her justice - the woman was undeniably gorgeous. It wasn’t even the intensity of the experience of having Bernie photograph her; being the sole focus of her attention, having her bring out parts of her, sides of her that she barely knew existed. No, what she had most certainly not been prepared for in anyway was what meeting Bernie had made her realise about herself and her sexuality. 

For someone who had only just recognised her attraction to women for what it was she’d certainly embraced it enthusiastically. Since that first night she’d spent with Bernie they’d barely been apart, and Serena wouldn’t have had it any other way. The long nights they spent in bed together learning each others bodies had been a revelation to Serena. She had never realised that being with a woman could be so soft and so right - or that anyone could know what she wanted, what she needed, so intuitively. The days that they had spent together had been just as amazing and just as enlightening. If they’d spent the nights exploring each others bodies they’d spent the nights exploring each others minds and it had been almost as delightful.

It transpired that Bernie had booked three days of that week out to attend a photographic equipment fair. She’d insisted on cancelling in order to spend time with Serena, in spite of Serena's half hearted attempts to persuade her not to. Bernie’s claim that there was no camera more attractive to her than Serena was the statement that had sealed the decision. A bit of diary juggling and some rescheduling of appointments on Bernie’s part had meant they’d managed to spend almost the whole week together. Serena found it hard to believe that they’d spent so long in each others company with neither of them showing any signs of growing tired of it.

The week had been the stuff of dreams. Paris was, after all, the city of romance and Serena now fully understood why it was called that. The coffee’s in tiny back street cafe’s, strolling by the Seine, sharing hot fresh croissants in the morning and bottles of red wine in the evening, watching the sunset on the Eiffel Tower and rise on the Arc de Triomphe - it was all the very definition of romance. As powerful and thrilling as it was, it wasn’t any of it that had Serena’s heart in a tailspin. What had reduced her to the level of a love sick teenagers was the side of Bernie she’d got to know, the woman behind the camera. As a woman who had made it in a man’s world Serena was used to dismissive men and competitive women; of conversations, friendships and relationships which always had a sub text, a hidden agenda. Serena clung to the few genuine and deep friendships she had; the likes of Fleur, Ric, Raf and Sian, She clung especially hard to those that had been forged out of disagreement or conflict and grown into mutual respect and even affection.

With Bernie, however, there had been none of that. From the very start there had been respect between them. Serena felt Bernie understood the courage and self belief it took to go through with a boudoir shoot. In turn Serena was full of admiration for Bernie’s skill, not only behind the camera but in the way she had seemingly effortlessly put Serena at her ease. It felt, for once, that admiration could exist without the instinctive competitiveness that Serena had become used to. It was deliciously refreshing and intoxicating. Serena had been delighted to discover that Bernie’s ability to put her at her ease wasn’t limited to photo sessions. It had been so very simple to slip into conversation with Bernie. It didn’t seem to matter what the topic was: the latest vacuous reality stars fall from grace, the state of the NHS, the architectural merit (or otherwise) of the buildings they saw as they explored, signature recipes. Not that they always agreed with each other, but they certainly had compatible world views and complimentary opinions. When they differed it didn’t end in conflict, as Serena had so often experienced. Their differing views became opportunities to discuss, learn and grow in a safe respectful place. It was, to Serena’s jaded palate, beyond refreshing.

Of all the discussions they had the ones Serena loved the most involved them talking about themselves. It was rare for Serena to feel she could talk openly about herself to anyone. She wasn’t afraid to use her experiences to help others, she often did. When she did, it was always very much a carefully judged and calculated snippet, not giving away any more than she wanted or needed to. The same was true of her friendships. She let them in, of course she did, but only so far and only on her terms. With Bernie though her usual reserve seemed to melt away.

If Bernie could look at her through the camera lens and see so many parts of her personality then when they spoke, just the two of them, it was like she was looking directly into Serena’s soul. It should have been uncomfortable, even scary, being so exposed - even more so than standing in front of her in nothing but lingerie - but somehow it wasn’t. Somehow it felt safe and such a relief to be so known. The more Bernie met Serena’s confidences with compassion, understanding and gentleness the more Serena opened up. The more she opened up the freer she felt and the deeper her connection to Bernie grew. It seemed that no topics were off limits to them: family dynamics, mother daughter relationships, loss and bereavement, the weight of parental expectations they’d talked about them all. Serena was offering thanks to whatever deity it was that had engineered their meeting.

It didn’t take Serena long to realise that Bernie was seldom without a camera in her hand or about her person. It seemed almost to be an extension of her. The more expensive of her cameras stayed safely in her studio. They were too vital to her work to risk out and about on the busy streets of Paris. The camera that came everywhere with her, the one she referred to as her everyday one (much to Serena’s amusement) was probably more expensive than all to cameras that Serena had ever owned put together. It certainly had more knobs, dials and buttons than Serena could comprehend. Bernie had just shrugged when Serena had expressed her bewilderment. I like having the right tools for the job, no matter what I’m doing she’d told Serena. It transpired that it wasn’t just boudoir shoots that Bernie excelled in. She had an unerring eye for a striking picture, for getting the composition just so, and somehow capturing life and vibrancy in her pictures that you felt you could lose yourself in them. 

The first time Bernie had shown Serena some of the images she’d captured they’d been walking along the bank of the Seine. Serena had got used to Bernie’s interest being piqued, seemingly at random by something she saw and commencing an impromptu photo session. It was almost as if she didn’t know that she was doing it. She might break pace to set up a shot but their conversation never faltered. It was almost instinctive, an extension of Bernie. On this particular occasion they’d been strolling hand in hand along the river. It’s one of those crisp clear evenings when everything seems suspended in time – like the world is waiting for something to happen. They’ve spent a wonderful afternoon exploring Monmatre: enjoying the peace and calm of the Basilica of Sacre Coeur, the bustle and vibrancy of the Rue de Steinkerque and its shops full of trinkets and crowds hunting for a bargain. They’d warmed up in one of the homely cafes with hot chocolate and eaten freshly cooked crepes as they’d wandered hand in hand around the Place du Tertre taking in the spectacle and colours of the maze of artists set against the backdrop of the 18thC buildings. As evening had started to fall and the light had shown the first signs of beginning to fade their minds had begun to turn towards dinner. 

Serena had, hesitantly at first, suggested to Bernie that they might head down to the Seine and see if a restaurant that had been a favourite of her mothers, that she’d visited many times with her, might still be there. Serena had never wanted to share anything so personal with anyone else before, yet somehow sharing it with Bernie felt right. Bernie’s delighted and enthusiastic response served to make Serena more than certain that it sharing it with her had been very much the right thing to do. When they emerged from the Metro station the dusk of the evening had well and truly settled. By the time they reached the bank of the Seine the city had started to light up. The glow of street lights, neon signs, floodlights, car headlights, lights pouring from the doors and windows of bistro’s, cafe’s bars and clubs and the lights from the Bateaux Mouches as they cruised down the river made the city seem somehow cosy and welcoming. By some sort of unspoken mutual assent they both stopped when they drew level with a flat, wide, but low enough to lean on wall, which if you cared to stop, gave a wonderful vantage point to take in the river and the light show the reflection of the city was casting on it. Both Bernie and Serena it seemed cared to stop a while and drink in the scene. There was something magical about it, almost ethereal, Serena thought. Bernie had reached for her camera and was turning dials, fiddling with knobs and setting up her shot. Serena looked in the same direction as Bernie and tried to work out exactly what had caught her eye. It was obviously something specific she’d seen, but Serena couldn’t see what it was that Bernie could.

It didn’t take Bernie long to get her shot. Serena hadn’t taken her eyes off her the whole time. She thought that she’d been subtle and Bernie had been preoccupied with her camera. It turned out that neither was entirely true though because as soon as Bernie had her shot she pressed a sequence of buttons on the camera and handed it to Serena. The small screen on the back of the camera was displaying the photo Bernie had just taken, and Serena’s breath was snatched away,

Ostensibly the image was of a Bateaux Mouche making it’s way down the centre of the river, but it was so much more than that. The boat was heading for a floodlit bridge. Pools of light were spilling out into the gaps between the bridges’ arches, shining onto the water and being reflected back up to illuminate the arcs and shining like a beacon welcoming the boat towards it. The banks of the Seine, framing the picture, were illuminated on both sides by lights from buildings and lamps, forming what almost looked like a candlelit pathway for the boat to follow. The sense of the boats movement that Bernie had captured was almost tangible. What really made the photo stand out though were the colours of the sky that Bernie had captured in it. The evening sky was a riot of blues, pinks and wisps of fluffy white clouds. All the vast array of shades and colours were reflected in the shimmering waters of the Seine and as the boat cut through the river the colours split and scattered along the path of her bow wave making them shine and sparkle like cosmic dust, and Bernie had caught it perfectly. Serena thinks the image is stunning. She takes her time drinking it all in, studying every aspect before she finally says to Bernie.

“How did you… I mean, this is…. It’s just so… How did you do that? The admiration in her voice is evident and Bernie smiles broadly and laughs slightly awkwardly.

“It’s not that difficult.” she says. When Serena looks sceptical she adds “Look, I’ll show you.” She slips the strap of the camera off her own neck and puts it over Serena’s, then she turns Serena and positions her so she’s facing the river and her elbows are resting on the wall in front of her providing a stable platform. Bernie stands behind Serena and tucks herself around her, her front pressing against Serena’s back, her arms wrapped around Serena’s waist, her head resting on Serena’s shoulder, cheek brushing cheek. Reaching up Bernie presses another couple of buttons on the camera Serena is now holding and the screen in front of them both transforms into a viewfinder. Bernie starts to talk about composition, lighting, shadows and perspective. Serena is interested, she really is – but she’s distracted, so distracted, by the way Bernie is cocooning her. The comforting sensation of being held tightly is so good, the warmth of Bernie’s breath against her face as she tries to explain to Serena how to get a perfect shot is like a caress. What’s even more distracting though, more distracting than anything Serena has previously come across, are Bernie’s fingers. Long, slender and beautiful they would be distracting enough on their own, what’s really got Serena is the way they are dancing across buttons, tweaking dials and flickering around the screen as she indicates various things on the display to illustrate whatever point she has been making. Serena swallows, hard. The way Bernie’s fingers are moving is almost pornographic. Even worse for Serena’s now precarious equilibrium she knows exactly what it feels like to have those fingers on her and in her: tweaking her nipples, pressing on her sensitive clit and flickering inside her, driving her helplessly towards a climax. She tries her hardest to concentrate but she’s fighting a losing battle.

Bernie shifts behind her to make an adjustment to the camera sending a jolt of desire through Serena. She gives up trying to concentrate on what Bernie is doing with the camera and focusses on what Bernie is doing to her body. It’s a relief when Bernie finally clicks the shutter and takes the photo.

“Can you see...” Bernie starts but Serena can’t see because she’s turning round in Bernie’s arms so she’s facing her. Before Bernie can get any further with whatever she had been about to say Serena’s lips are on hers, hungry and insistent, warm and soft. Serena’s hand reaches up to tangle in Bernie’s unruly hair and hold her in place. Bernie doesn’t need to be held in place though. Whilst she might have been taken by surprise at first she’s soon responding enthusiastically, lips opening in response to Serena’s probing tongue. At the same time her left hand sneaks up to rest on Serena’s inviting neck, her right hand occupied holding the camera, although it doesn’t stop her from using her right arm to pull Serena closer into her. The two of them stand there, locked together, for several minutes, although to them it feels like only seconds. As their kiss deepens and desire grows within them the sounds, the sights, the people walking past them just stop registering. They’re too engrossed in the feel, smell and taste of each other. Or they were until the big plump raindrops of a sudden cloudburst start falling on them. It takes a few raindrops landing on them before they realise what’s happening and break their embrace. It’s Bernie who acts first, grabbing Serena’s hand and pulling her through a gap in the traffic and into the comparative shelter of a shop doorway. They stand huddled together in the cramped space looking out at the rain which has turned into something of a deluge. Bernie hasn’t let go of Serena’s hand and Serena has certainly noticed. Taking her eyes of the rain for a second she looks at Bernie for a moment – a slightly bashful look on her face, though well concealed under the broad grin she’s wearing. 

“Sorry,” she says, unsure what the rules are about such open displays of affection between them as they’ve kept things pretty chaste in public so far.

“Are you kidding?” Bernie says incredulously. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day!” and she beams back at Serena. Serena makes a determined effort to act like the mature and competent adult she is rather than a teenager filled with raging hormones. It’s a bit harder than she’d anticipated it would be, but she gets there.

“What do you want to do now?” Serena asks.

“I think we should get dinner. The restaurant is just down the road, I’m pretty sure. We can wait for the rain to lighten up a bit and make a run for it.” She looks with a disgruntled face at the rain now falling so heavily it’s bouncing several inches up off the pavement when it lands.

“I’m not sure I want to eat any more. I have other ideas for what we could do next.” Serena explains.

“Oh believe me, I do too. You’re going to want to eat first though – you’re going to need your strength for what I’ve got in mind for later.” Bernie half threatens, half promises and playfully taps Serena on the nose. Serena looks momentarily bemused by this, and even more so when Bernie reaches towards her and pulls her coat collar up round her neck to protect her from the rain when they make a run for it. It’s been far too long since anyone did anything for protective and caring for her. Her heart melts and the bemusement on her face follows suite and softens into an adoring smile. Bernie pulls up her own collar, picks up Serena’s hand again and looks out at the street. The rain is still falling and it’s still miserably wet out there, but it doesn’t seem as heavy and the raindrops have stopped bouncing off the road.

“This may be as good as it’s going to get for a while.” Bernie says decisively “Come on. Now or never!” she declares as she pulls Serena gently out into the Parisian night and they dash away into the rain hand in hand.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out Bernie was indeed right that the small restaurant Serena remembered was just down the road - although it was, in reality, more of a bistro. Still, the welcome they received was every bit as warm as Serena recalled it having been from her visits with her Mother. They’d burst through the door dripping and somewhat out of breath. The Maître d’ had looked at them both in horror and declared that such beautiful women couldn’t possibly stay in such a dishevelled condition in his establishment. Full of solicitousness, and murmuring reassurances all the while, he had soon he had soon relieved them of their wet coats and sent them off in the direction of the restroom to freshen themselves up. He dispatched an efficient waitress, complete with a stack of fresh towels to dry themselves on, to show then the way. 

The restroom was luxurious with ornate fittings, beautiful art on the walls and a bank of large mirrors behind what looks like a marble topped counter. Bernie and Serena take full advantage. Bernie wipes her face, vigorously towels her hair dry and teases it into her trademark mop of untidy curls with her fingers. Serena on the other hand gently blots her face, softly pats the moisture from her hair, and swings her handbag up onto the counter. Extracting a comb she and efficiently begins to restore her hair to a semblance of order. Hair repaired to her satisfaction she rummages in her handbag again and pulls out a powder compact, lipstick, blusher and tube of mascara. For a minute or two Serena is focused on undoing the damage the cloudburst has done to her face, so she doesn’t notice at first that Bernie is watching her every move in the mirror, in evident fascination. Serena can’t quite put her finger on why Bernie watching her do something so mundane feels so intimate, so charged, and almost as if she’s putting on a show. She decides that she doesn’t want to break the moment and the spell it has cast over them, so she doesn’t acknowledge she knows that Bernie is watching her, she just reaches for her lipstick and removes the lid. The shade of red she’s holding in her hand is somewhat darker than the shade she’d been wearing when they’d set out that morning, but it’s ideal for a romantic dinner for two. She twists the tube to expose the cosmetic inside and opens her lips slightly. She hears Bernie draw in a sharp breath but doesn’t allow herself to react Instead she draws the lipstick slowly and deliberately across first her top lip and then the bottom. The whole restroom is silent and it seems as if Bernie has ceased to breathe. Serena purses her lips together to form a perfect cupid’s bow shape. A soft whimper, barely audible despite the silence, comes from Bernie’s direction. Delighted, Serena snaps the lid back on her lipstick tube with a satisfying ‘click’, puts a broad (and slightly smug) grin on her face, turns to Bernie and says

“Shall we?”

In a flurry of fabric and a cloud of perfume Serena walks out of the bathroom, leaving a slightly befuddled Bernie to follow in her wake.

No sooner have they arrived back in the restaurant than the Maître d’ is at their side dancing attendance on them with stereotypical Gallic charm. They are ushered to a cosy table for two in front on a well fueled fire. Its’ dancing flames are giving off just enough heat to warm their cold and damp bodies comfortably. As if by magic, but in truth the result of a well timed instruction from the Maître d’, two large glasses arrive at their table, a rich bronze liquid filling their bottoms. They are swiftly followed by the Maître d’ himself, who says

“Ah! The fire warms you outside, the brandy warms you inside. And to warm your souls you have each other! A toast to ‘l’amour’?” he beams widely and expectantly at the two women. Bernie starts to blush slightly and Serena’s hand flies to the pendant at her neck. There’s no denying it’s an awkward moment. For all the time they’ve spent together in the last week they’ve not talked about their feelings for each other. Not in actual words. There was no doubt they enjoyed, and wanted, each others company - and their bodies certainly spoke a language of love when they were together. But actually discussing how they felt about each other, what was going on between them, how they felt about each other? No. They’d mutually agreed, without ever bringing it up, that talk of feelings might damage without chance of repair, the wonderful joy filled bubble in which they were currently existing. 

Serena flicks her eyes up to peek at Bernie. She looks a little like a deer caught in headlights. Serena feels the pull of that look on her heartstrings and takes pity on Bernie. She puts her own flash of discomfort to one side and her best ‘charm ‘em and disarm ’em’ smile on her face. She lifts her glass, turns the full power of her smile on the Maître d’ and says

“A l’amour” and takes an elegant sip. Bernie, in turn, raises her glass and mutters something that might or might not have been l’amour. It seems though, that the Maître d’ is satisfied. He leans over the table, lights the candle between them, wishes them ‘bon appetit’ and retreats to the podium at the front of the bistro. Bernie has hidden her face in the menu, obviously not wanting to meet Serena’s eyes. Serena takes a second, and much larger, sip of her brandy before she reaches out and places her hand gently on top of Bernies’. Bernie jumps slightly and looks up at Serena but she doesn’t move her head. Serena judges this is a good sign. 

“It was just a toast.” Serena consoles Bernie. “He was being gallant. He didn’t really mean anything by it. I indulged him to be polite. I don’t have any expectations, I mean we’ve only known each other a week. It’s been wonderful, it is wonderful, but it’s far too early to be thinking in those terms. That’s not to say I don’t like you though, because I do. I more than like you. I really do it’s just…..” she tails off not sure exactly where this little speech is taking her, but aware that she’s digging herself deeper into a hole. Bernie says nothing for a long moment, and Serena feels her heart start to race. She can’t work out how Bernie is going to take this, and she desperately doesn’t want anything to spoil whatever is growing between them. Bernie fiddles with the stem of her brandy glass with the hand that Serena isn’t holding. Finally she lifts her head, looks up properly, and says

“The thing is, he wasn’t that far off the mark, was he? Oh, I know it’s far too early for declarations of love, but I more than like you too. I don’t have a good track record with relationships, it takes a lot to get me to open up to anyone, to give them a chance. You though, you’re special. Different. I didn’t think twice about spending time with you, getting to know you, letting myself get close to you. I guess that what I’m saying is that what there is between us, it isn’t some kind of fling for me. I’m serious about you, about ‘us’. I don’t know what will happen but right now I can see myself falling in love with you all to easily.”

For a moment Serena can’t say anything. It wasn’t the reply that she had been expecting and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. She catches Bernie’s eye and sees a flash of vulnerability there before the shutters start to come protectively down. Serena can’t bear to see it and it spurs her into speech, although her voice isn’t quite normal.

“Do you, do you mean that?” she asks.

“Yes, I do.” Bernie confirms. “We can pretend I didn’t say it if it was too much. I don’t want to put any pressure on you. You don’t have to feel the same. I don’t expect anything either.” Bernie looks apprehensive, and she’s clearly braced for a let down.

“What if I told you that I felt the same?” asks Serena.

“Do you?” Bernie asks in return. Their hands are still clasped across the table and Serena gently raises Bernie’s hand and intertwines their fingers.

“I do.” she admits, and is rewarded with a dazzling smile which sends delightful shivers through her. She can’t help but grin back at Bernie, and for far too long they sit there looking soppily at each other. It’s Serena who breaks the extended moment with a slightly awkward subject change.

“Shall we decide what to eat?” Bernie concurs, perfectly happy to move away from the topic of emotions and feelings to more comfortable ground. The table lapses into a companionable silence whilst they study the menu. It’s only disturbed by their waiter arriving to take their orders.

The bottle of shiraz they have elected to share arrives moments after their waiter leaves and is soon spilling and splashing into the glasses in front of them. It’s Serena this time who starts toying with the stem of her glass, their hands having disentangled at the waiters arrival.

“Are you OK about being here? We can go if you want to?” Bernie offers, full of concern.

“No, honestly, it’s fine. I thought it would be hard but it isn’t. It’s comforting somehow. I’m glad we came. I’m glad that you came with me. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’d have been a fool to turn down dinner with such a beautiful, elegant and captivating woman.” 

Serena goes a very light shade of red and she takes a sip of the wine she’s been fiddling with.  
“I think I’ll see this Bistro as ours now. I have a lot of memories connected to my mother. I think I’d like this place to be about us.” 

“Then let’s drink to making fresh memories.” Bernie suggests, peering up at Serena from behind her long floppy fringe, glass already in the air. Serena aquiesses, smiling and taking another sip of her drink. As wine and conversation flow Bernie and Serena slip into the comfortable back and forth they’d been enjoying all week. The mood lifts, turning light and playful as both women relax. 

The restaurant isn’t busy - the rain having clearly put people off venturing out, and their food is soon placed in front of them. The smell of garlic and herbs assail them, reminding them of their hunger. Conversation falters as they tuck in. Serena has opted for a traditional cassoulet, packed full of rich meaty flavour. Bernie has chosen an equally hearty coq au vin. Between them on the table is a crock of creamy yellow butter and a basket of fresh, hot, fragrant bread. Initial hunger pangs successfully banished, their conversation soon starts up again. 

“Your mother obviously had good taste. This is delicious.” Bernie comments.

“I do remember the food as always being good. The cassoulet is their house speciality. Try some.” Serena offers and, without waiting for Bernie to reply she tears off a crust of bread, dips it into her dish, scoops up a generous mouthful of soft beans, tender meat and flavour packed sauce and holds it out over the table towards Bernie.

The table between them isn’t overly small. It’s not overly large either. It’s small enough for Serena to be able to hold the cassoulet laden crust right over to Bernie, but big enough that Bernie has lean forward to take it in her mouth. As she does, and her lips close around the morsel, Serena feels Bernie’s lips brush the tips of her fingers. It’s soft, barely there, and Serena can’t be sure if it’s deliberate, accidental or even be entirely sure it actually happened. Bernie isn’t giving anything away. Her eyes are shut and her face is a picture of indulgent pleasure. Serena is transfixed. She’s certain that she will never tire of seeing Bernie’s features relaxed in bliss, although she did prefer to be a direct cause of that look She’s so lost in recollections of the times during the previous week she’s seen almost the exact same look on Bernie’s face that she hardly registers that she’s begun to speak. 

“You were right. That was delicious. Try some of mine.” Bernie mirrors Serena’s actions of a few moments ago, tearing off a crust of bread of her own, scooping up a helping of rich, winey, chickeny goodness and proffering it across the table to Serena. This time it’s Serena’s turn to lean forward, open her mouth and be fed. But this time, when Bernie withdraws her hand Serena makes sure that her lips touch Bernie’s fingertips firmly enough that there can be no doubt that it’s a deliberate action. Serena keeps her eyes open and fixed on Bernie as she makes short work of the mouthful, and lets out a moan of satisfaction. She is rewarded by a distinct widening of Bernie’s eyes. Serena is a consummate flirt and Bernie has just handed her a golden opportunity to indulge herself. Not that she really has to have an excuse to flirt, especially with Bernie, but it does somehow feel like Bernie has thrown down the gauntlet and Serena is more than willing to take up the challenge. 

“Delicious!” Serena notes in a huskier voice than usual and watches Bernie’s face begin to flush. She looks radiantly beautiful and Serena can’t take her eyes of her. Bernie,   
flustered, turns her attention back to her meal and the spell is broken.

Serena reaches for her wine glass, takes a sip, and lets the deep red liquid hang suspended in midair between the table and her lips, candlelight glittering off the glass. She’s about to ask Bernie what her plans are for the rest of the evening when she something brush against the side of her ankle. At first, she’s not sure what it is. As she becomes aware that the brushing isn’t some kind of accidental encounter but a deliberate caress her face starts to flush a deeper shade of red than the warmth of the fire justifies. The glow on her cheeks seems to radiate inwards, straight to the very depths of her stomach as she realises that what she can feel is Bernie’s foot trailing up and down her calf - proof that Bernie is flirting back and that the game is afoot in more ways than one.


End file.
